Zones of Disinterest

My sweltering hose sweats fresh garden water
into the early spring sway, and just like that,
this poem is a dirty exploration of metaphor
and semiotic pre-gasm. Let's revel it back in
and consider getting some forehead ash in
stead of forward skin trash. An other approach
in de-portmanteau, a de-sexualization of all 
that was meant in the first place to be an A
sexual letter grade, a cage-free leg without 
regard for regard, but with guards for disregarded 
places, the furry zones of disinterest where I can
hide my plant life from my animal strife. Also,
animal striving tries to take over from the dividing
lines between ritual and titillation. I'm a greedy
buzzard, trying to smell death on the wind and
eat until I am also corpsed. Vulture like cultures
enough bacteria to guarantee that anything can
be eaten until being succumbed in the stomach
of a whale -- they eat live herring and eventually,
right?, must they die? When is death? Dematerial
time? That's elation of eyes, when they no longer
be, they cannot be a beehive of still alive, and in
no more breath, there are no more dashes on rocks.